The Duel, Part 13

I consult my map, and my Google Street View printouts. I’m here. I camp out with a coffee at a Peruvian chicken-and-hot-dog stand (an estufaýo, technically) across the street, and set my sights on the doorway. The boring human traffic shoots up and down Lexington Avenue: cars and cabs, Penske box trucks with roof damage, Portuguese men pedalling oversized feijoada trikes with thirteen-gallon kettles of stew between the handlebars. I’m in New York City, and it is six o’clock in the morning.

A young man in his mid-twenties comes out of the doorway a few minutes later. He glances nervously around; he’s carrying an oblong black-plastic case, like what might hold an oboe. A black van with several unusual antennae pulls up. NYMMRS, it says on the side. New York Metropolitan Model Rocket Society. They just picked Zach up. He won’t be back for five hours.

I sprint through the traffic—it’s easier than it looks on TV. Everyone stops politely, no one honks. Some middle-aged women in a nice Camry wave, and a silver-haired gentleman in the back of a Maybach rolls down his window to say, “Good morning.” He smiles as I reply, then rolls the window back up, happy to be a part of it all.

I briefly work my tensioner in the lock, and I’m in. Six flights up and I enter Slammers, my rival sandwich operation. I’m surprised to see how many CD towers there are everywhere, but other than that there’s the usual assortment of ninety-dollar IKEA tables and stamp-forged flatware. A beagle lies on a rug near the window, his head under a large red pillow. He’s pretending he doesn’t know I’m there.

The beagle extricates himself and pads over, his cute little snout subserviently pointed down the whole way. “You can smell Olive now,” I say. He sniffs my shoes and cuffs.

“Thank you,” the beagle says. “Zach is away doing rockets, but you can be here.”

“Thank you. I’m going to make some food now. Food for Zach.”

I unpack my bag and begin to assemble what some call “Armenian Sandwiches,” or rolled sandwiches, on lavosh. I have a system that keeps these from being slimy pedestrian Costco-fare. No tomatoes or lettuce, for one—those vegetables age poorly once dressed, and underperform in the mouth—and a dressing based on dried oregano, mirin, red-wine vinegar, sriracha, and mayonnaise.

“You are making neat food,” says the beagle.

“Thank you,” I say. As I carry the completed sandwich tray to the table and prepare to leave, I toss him a little nugget of gouda rind mashed together with smoked-ham rind.